Dita Parker

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The Slaughterhouse Rules

Dearest denizens, how are you, sweetie daaarlings?! I had to step out for a couple of days to take care of business and suddenly it's Thursday. How did that happen? All recovered from having to fear how the votes fell and who won? Al Jazeera and Iraqi voters, my bouncing buns. You were glued to the Oscars, weren't you?

Have you had a chance to pick up Alex yet? All those running for cover: Bad boys and girls! Go to my room!! A nekkid reading, perhaps, to get you in the mood for love? Would your pulse start to rush and all kinds of misunderstandings ensue? I'm pretty sure Hubby would object even though it's just skin. We're all covered with it head to toe. What if I wish to be seen and treated as all woman and not just a brain? I'm more than a head, you know. It comes with a body attached! That didn't come out quite right, did it? Where were we?

The project I was asked to do? Mucho interesting. I'm doing it. Just this one, okay? I'm good at it. Please? I do have books lined up for you, oh yes I do. I'll still write and love you, promise! I've also been chasing after You-Know-Who. Pointless, you say? Cut a head and three grow back? We'll see. I happen to enjoy me a little cat and mouse, Itchy and Scratchy style in their case. I don't have to make their life any cushier than it already is, do I?

I was told to be cool and not dignify their sordid business with any mention or reaction whatsoever. But come on, I know they're out there. You know they're out there. They know we know. Search most any author and all kinds of possibilities open up. 

Dearest denizens, do not dignify the dark side by even glancing their way. Don't think Darth Vader's smelly armpits, think festering Sith crotch (and you've all seen that airtight suit). That's what and where they are. Nas-ty. They raise a deep contempt in this writer's heart, a heart she all too often and maybe unwisely wears on her sleeve, but said writer never claimed to be after wisdom, did she, merely justice. 

I knew it would be bad, I only had no idea it would feel this awful. Really really really really really really really really really really awful. Yes, the spate of the just and true, this burning in my belly. Better get used to it, I was told. I cut myself out of the game and three other writers get posted. We are quite expendable to Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. 

I'm not bitter, just a little green and idiotically idealistic and angry. Forget hate, it's pointless; worse still, paralyzing. But anger, yes anger can fuel little engines that could into superhuman feats. I shall tell you all about mine in my memoirs, The Slaughterhouse Rules, not to be written any time soon for I am still a young and untried soldier of love with many battles to wage and books to write.

It's still Read an eBook and Universal Women's Week. Ooh, and Optimism Month, kryptonite for the cynics and the occasional realist. Let's mess with both the cynics and You-Know-Who, shall we, and buy an eBook, and keep it all to ourselves. Because we can afford one. Because our favorite authors are worth it. Because we're not going to go or see very far standing on the shoulders of mental midgets and sitting inside stale Sith suits. 

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a date with Those-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named disguised as a punching bag. Step back. Things will get ugly fast. Never fear for my sanity or peace of mind, sweetie daaarlings, I've found the perfect means to get my, hmm, reactions under constructive and creative wraps, thoroughly enjoying every second of it. See you in my room after carnage then. You can leave your hat on. 

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